The Eye of the Storm
by Laura013
Summary: (On hiatus) When London's most famous Consulting Detective is so close to hitting rock bottom, the one person who was always there to comfort him is gone. While Sherlock is waiting for the right time to come out of hiding, he begins to realize his feelings for a certain mortician. (Sherlock/Molly, John/OC, mentions of Mycroft/Lestrade) Rated T to be safe
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, all! This is my first Sherlock fiction (it's a Sherlolly fiction, just so y'alls know), so I hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Sherlock series or any of the characters.**

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The smell of alcohol hit Sherlock's nose as Kat walked into the morgue. The smell made him feel sick to his stomach. Even though Kat had worked in the morgue for the few months after he'd been living there, the smell still irked him. It wasn't the same as the candied-cherry perfume Molly used to wear. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he missed Molly. He'd always felt so comfortable around her, and she was the only one he trusted, even more than Mycroft, and she helped him through his darkest time.

"Where were you this time?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. He hardly needed to ask. Four months, he'd been living—hiding—in the morgue, and every night had gone the same. He stayed up late, doing Kat's job, while Kat went out clubbing. Oh, it wasn't at the same club every night, different places, different things. He could tell from the smell and the amount of glitter on her clothes that she didn't get past second base. He smiled to himself.

"Here and there." She was always so vague around Sherlock. He missed Molly's softness. At least Molly had taken care of him before she left. She made sure he had food, water, entertainment, and family. She'd been the only one who helped him when no one else believed he was real. She and Mycroft were the only ones he told, but Mycroft refused to intervene. He said he "didn't want to get involved." But Molly was kind to him. She took him in, gave him a place to stay, and he would always be grateful for that. But what he didn't understand was why she quit. She had said it was for the best, but he didn't understand. He _hated _Kat, and Mycroft rarely visited.

"Oh, there was a man outside to see you this morning." She let the last word roll off her tongue. Sherlock sighed. The blonde was so forgetful, or maybe she just didn't care. He pulled out his phone and texted Mycroft.

_Morgue. 5 minutes. –SH_

"Well, I'm outtie! I'm supposed to meet someone." She winked at him, licking her lip. Sherlock scowled when she slammed the door. Just then, his phone vibrated.

He got an immediate response. Sherlock was already at the door. He had it open as Mycroft hit send. Mycroft walked in, slamming it shut with his black parasol. "Why did you call?" Sherlock's jaw fell ever so slightly. _Was Mycroft finally losing his mind? _"You called me. You came, this morning." Mycroft sighed. "You look horrible." Sherlock's jaw snapped back shut. "Yes, because I've been living _here._" Mycroft sighed again. "It's Molly, isn't it?" Sherlock frowned, his eye twitching. "What on earth do you mean?" Mycroft sighed again. "I told you that you shouldn't listen to your feelings." Sherlock frowned harder. "What feelings?" Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Your feelings for Molly." A look flashed across Sherlock's eyes that filled Mycroft with pleasure. _Confusion._ "Goodbye, little brother. Remember where your loyalties lie." Mycroft left the morgue, leaving Sherlock feeling more confused than the day he died.

Late that night, Kat returned from clubbing. "Who were you sleeping with?" She rolled her eyes. "Oh, just someone." She slid on her lab coat. There was another smell on her, one that Sherlock was much more familiar with. Chamomile tea. Dr. John Watson made it for him every day. A pang fell through Sherlock's body. He missed Dr. Watson, and he wasn't ashamed in the slightest to admit it. He constantly found himself with his phone in his hand and speed dial number 1 dialed, his thumb on the "call" button. He found himself wearing jumpers more often and drinking tea. He missed their cases, their "dates" that made John feel so amusedly homophobic, and mostly, their apartment. Lying on the morgue table was nothing like his bed in 221B. His bed in 221B was comfortable. Of course, that bed was made for the living. His bed was made for the dead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello everyone! Okay, here's chapter 2. Also, I'm expecting this fic to go somewhere between 10-20 chapters, but it may be more (it probably won't be less, but who knows) Also also, the chapters ****_will _****most likely get longer, but we shall see.**

**Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Sherlock series or any of the characters.**

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Living in the morgue gave Sherlock much time to think. Of course, he had nowhere else to go. John probably still lived in their apartment. Mycroft refused to take him in. Molly Hooper was the only person kind enough to lend him a hand, but Molly didn't have a spare bed in her apartment. Plus, who would want to look in a morgue? Staring at the ceiling fan spin round and round gave Sherlock entertainment for his eyes, allowing his mind to think. Normally, he thought about science. He would write his experiments on the low-hanging ceiling in sharpie and stare at them, over and over, trying to find errors. He would hang paper mache over the writing to make it look like he'd never written there at all, and Kat fell for it. During the day he'd hide behind the coat rack, analyzing dead bodies and doing Kat's work for her. During the nights he'd finish up her lab reports, using sparkly pink pen, hoping to disguise his handwriting. Of course, no one would notice. Ordinary people weren't that observant. Not tonight, however. Tonight, Sherlock's thoughts were on Molly.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Sherlock had forgotten about Kat. He just wanted her to go away, and for Molly to come back. "Fine." He snapped. There was something about Molly, something he couldn't place. He remembered they're final goodbye.

_"Listen, Sherlock. I can't… keep doing this. I'm really sorry."_

_"I don't understand, Molly. Why can't you stay?" _

_"I just… I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I can't stay here, like this, with you… I'm sorry. I'm quitting my job and I'm leaving."_

_"Where will you go?"_

Sherlock remembered the look on Molly's face. She almost looked hopeful that he cared. That was when Sherlock realized the gravity of emotion. Molly had a job, a good job, a family here, a life, but she gave it all up for Sherlock. She had spent all her late nights, all her spare money, everything she had to make sure he was okay. She had given him her heart and he had given her indifference.

_"Oh, you know, here and there. Sherlock, promise me you'll be safe. Mycroft will keep an eye on you, and I'll hire a trustworthy replacement who will help. Here's some money, along with my cell number. Please, don't hesitate to call if you need me. Goodbye, Sherlock."_

_"Goodbye, Molly."_

"Molly, please don't go." Sherlock found himself whispering the words. "What?" Again, Sherlock had forgotten about Kat. He saw the blonde roll her eyes and grab her coat. "Whatever." She left the building, probably going to meet her boyfriend. Sherlock did notice her behaviour had been changing slightly. She'd been being kinder to him (slightly), and she'd been talking in a more behaved way. Maybe this mystery man was changing her, and that made Sherlock glad. She'd found someone who she could be an adult with. Sherlock's thoughts drifted back to Molly. He had always felt so comfortable around her. From what he'd heard from Mycroft, if you loved someone, you felt nervous around him or her, but that wasn't what Sherlock now knew to be true. Sherlock came to three realizations that night.

1. Morgues didn't have heaters for a very good reason.

2. Kat's boyfriend wasn't a total jackass.

3. Sherlock Holmes was in love with Molly Hooper.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi (again!) everyone! Wow, I've been posting a lot today! Sorry, I won't usually post this much, but I hope you enjoy this for now! :)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Sherlock series or any of the characters.**

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"Mycroft."

The first thing Sherlock Holmes did when he realized his feeling was something utterly normal. The normalcy of this action shocked both Sherlock and the person on the other end of the phone call. He had called his elder brother for love advice.

"Ah, Sherlock. Come to talk about a certain mortician?" Sherlock scowled. He opened his mouth to spit back some witty comeback, but all that came out was a feeble whisper. "What do I do, Mycroft?" He heard his brother sigh sadly on the other line. Sherlock knew Mycroft hoped this day would never come. Mycroft had hoped that Sherlock would live in his bubble of ignorance and asexuality for the rest of his life. Mycroft didn't want to deal with Sherlock in this way, because Sherlock was a strong man, but the blows of love would be enough to take even the tallest down.

"Talk to me, Sherlock. Tell me what you feel." Sherlock frowned. Mycroft _never _talked, especially about _feelings_.

"I can't think anymore, Mycroft." His deep, velvety voice dragged the final word. "My… my heart pounds so loud in my head that I can't think about anything. The only thing that will calm the nerves is that cherry perfume smell to surround me. Ordinary people dream about… God knows what. Kissing lips and all that such things. My nightmares have succumbed to the sweet dreams of her. Where there once was the cruel face of Moriarty, her shining eyes invade my mind palace. Her beautiful smile fills the empty hole that should be my heart. She _is _my heart." Sherlock found himself frowning harder and harder at his odd poetic words. He didn't talk like this. He _never _talked like this. Apparently, Mycroft noticed the acute pain in his voice.

"It's alright, Sherlock. You can talk to me. I won't tell Mummy. I understand." Sherlock yelped. He _didn't _yelp. He _never _yelped. His voice raised to a scream. "No! You don't understand! How could you ever understand! You've never loved a woman before! You go to your crime scenes and follow around your pathetic little detective inspector that you so fantasize about but you know nothing, Mycroft! You know nothing of love!" Sherlock could hear the pain in Mycroft's sigh and he imagined the look on the older man's face. Sherlock wanted to apologise, but he found himself unable to. "Goodbye, Sherlock." The tired voice whispered into his ears, followed by the sound of a dial tone.

Sherlock felt sick to his stomach. _What had he been reduced to?_ Screaming at his brother over love? Love? _Really, Sherlock. You mustn't be so pathetic. I thought we weren't ordinary, you and I. I guess I was wrong. _Sherlock jumped forward. Even his own mind had betrayed him, speaking in the voice of his nemesis, Jim Moriarty. He slouched down in a ball on the floor, the only thing comforting him was his deep blue jumper.

He had his phone in his hand, his button on the keypad, but his finger hovered over a different number. His phone contact order went like this.

_John Watson. Friend. Emergency contact. Speed dial-1_

_Mycroft Holmes. Brother. Speed dial-2_

_Greg Lestrade. Colleague. Speed dial-3_

_Mrs. Hudson. Housekeeper. Speed dial-4_

_Mummy Holmes. Mother. Speed dial-5_

_Molly Hooper. Colleague. Speed dial-6_

His finger hovered over the final contact. His thumbs were deciding between "Call" and "Delete Contact." He couldn't make up his mind. In the end, he decided to change the relation. He marked it "friend." He smiled at the thought of Molly's dark brown eyes lighting up. He lay down on the morgue table, covering himself in the blanket Mycroft had brought him. It still smelled like his mother's bourbon and her gardenia perfume. Those smells made Sherlock feel conflicted. He no longer associated that smell with home. Now, home smelled like tea and biscuits and a new book. He liked that smell much better. That's what John Watson smelled like. Sherlock shook his head quickly. He needed to distract himself. He got up and went to the lab. Before he knew what he was doing, he had five cherries in his hand. He began mashing them into liquid with a hammer, slowly adding fructose that had been dissolved into hot water.

Just then, Kat came in. She was on the phone.

"No you hang up! No you hang up," came annoyingly from her mouth. "Bye." She prolonged the word for as long as she could, shutting her pink flip phone. She looked appalled at Sherlock, who was now covered in cherry insides. "What on earth are you doing?" Sherlock smiled wickedly. "For science, Katarina! For science!" She rolled her eyes. Sherlock mimicked her. "Aren't you going to tell me who was on the phone?" She winked at him. "Oh just someone." Sherlock wasn't really in the mood for this childish banter, but he needed something to distract himself. He took a step closer to Kat. "Oh, come on," he persuaded, his deep, leathery voice entrancing the blonde, "just a name?" He smiled in the way he used to when trying to get John to bring him his laptop. Kat smiled excitedly. "Just my boyfriend." Now Sherlock was actually curious. He was fascinated how one man could change someone else's whole personality just by existing. He really wanted to know who this man was. Sherlock smiled again. "Do I get a name?" Kat shrugged. "I suppose! His name is John Watson. He's an army doctor."


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Sherlock series or any of the characters.**

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Sherlock felt sick to his stomach. _John Watson? _My _John Watson? Why would John date this whore? _Of course, Sherlock couldn't let Kat know what he thought. She was obviously happy with John. This thought shocked Sherlock. Four months ago, the first thing Sherlock would've done was shaken Kat off with indifference, even annoyance. He hated Kat for replacing Molly. He didn't expect himself to be so kind. Sherlock simply rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

Just then, Kat's phone rang. Her eyes lit up as she flipped the top up and put the device to her ear. "Oh! You're free! See you in five!" She waved to Sherlock, running to the door. As she opened it, she turned around suddenly. "You know, I think John may have mentioned you before. Whenever he gets stressed out, he removes a piece of paper from his pocket and writes 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' until he calms down. That paper is nearly black with ink now… Anyways, I'm going out. I just thought you ought to know you have a fan. Don't worry, I won't tell him you're here." She shut the door, leaving Sherlock feeling once again like he may cry.

He took in a deep breath, trying to calm himself, but something was still troubling him. He dug around in his little blue plastic tub of things Molly had brought him from 221B, freeing the violin. He began to play. At first the music calmed him, but then he found his hands doing something different. He was pulling the string back early, cutting off notes and making bad arpeggios. He found his hands violently moving back and forth, back and forth, harder and faster, harder and faster until the strings on his violin burst. He dropped the violin, sinking further and further to the floor. Sherlock hadn't felt this childish since he was five years old and he couldn't figure out how to do one of the problems in Mycroft's calculus book. _Mycroft! _Sherlock realised why he felt so upset. He had hurt his relationship with his brother in a way that could very possibly be detrimental to their relationship.

_Relationship? Why does this matter? _Sherlock couldn't figure out why he _cared _so much. He had never _cared _before. All of these… _feelings… _rushing over him like water just freed from a dam. _Is this how ordinary people really are? _Sherlock tried to go to his mind palace but he found it in ruins, damaged by the floods of emotion. Even so, Sherlock suddenly felt a tiny bit clearer. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed Mycroft.

"Holmes." Mycroft's voice sounded vacant. "What did you do, Mycroft. When you knew…" Sherlock's voice trailed off. He was no good at this. Mycroft picked up where Sherlock left off. "When I knew I loved him? I don't know what I did. Well, I do. I went to all the crime scenes I knew he was working, invading with my secret service. I set people watching his house, seeing what he was doing. I wanted to see every move of his. But you're right, Sherlock. He doesn't know me. He doesn't love me. I'm the wrong person to talk to." For some reason, the right thing to say popped into Sherlock's mind. "Greg Lestrade is a fine man. I'm sure if you just spoke to him, as a friend, surely something could happen. Being friends is better than nothing at all. Molly Hooper taught me that…" Sherlock once again trailed off, realizing what he had to do. "Mycroft, I must go. Please, go talk to Lestrade. Goodbye." Sherlock hit the end button before Mycroft could get in another word.

"Molly." His voice cracked into the phone. He heard her voice come across the other line. "Oh, God, Sherlock. Are you alright?" Sherlock took a deep breath. His voice was soaked with tears that were finally beginning to fall from his eyes. "Molly I need you at the morgue. It's an emergency." He heard her suck in a breath. "I'll be right there." She hung up the phone. Sherlock sighed about the amount of time he had. He threw off his blue jumper and buttoning on his purple collared shirt. He pulled out John's cologne and sprayed just the smallest amount on (that stuff was strong). He cleaned up the morgue, stuffing the broken violin into the blue tub under the table. He recycled all of Kat's empty beer cans and covered up his equations with paper mache.

Just then, he heard a knock at the back door. He opened it and saw Molly looking up at him. She took in a small breath as he put his hands on her waist and pressed his lips softly into hers.

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**Also, MUAHAHAHAHA**

**Sorry, but really, I hope you've enjoyed this so far! Please review with thoughts and ideas for further chapters! More coming soon!**

**-Laura (Laura013)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello lovelies! Sorry this one took me a *bit* longer to roll out! I've actually had it for days but I wanted the suspense to sit. Anyways, enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Sherlock series or any of the characters. **

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Sherlock awoke from the vivid dream with a dramatic gasp. He found himself slumped on the floor, with blood running lightly from his head. _Must've hit it on the table, _he thought to himself. It didn't take a detective to figure that one out. The corner of the table was soaked in his blood. His phone was on the ground, frozen on the screen, "Mycroft Holmes - End Call." It had probably broken in the fall out of his hand. He sighed. That meant he didn't actually call Molly. He was relieved, actually, that he hadn't made that phone call. That night, his mind palace had been in shambles, and the only place left for his consiousness to lie was in the part of his mind that stored feelings. Now that his mind palace had begun mental refurbishment, he felt much more at ease.

_Now how did I fall?_ Sherlock looked around for any sign of anything. He turned around cautiously, as if there was an axe murderer behind him. He saw a small petri dish tipped over on the ground, cherry juice spilling out. Sherlock began to recall the scene more clearly in his brain. When he hit the "End Call" button, his hand slackened to his waist, knocking over the petri dish. He had taken a step back, sliding in the cherry juice, slipping and hitting his head on the corner of the morgue table, and knocking himself out. The cherry juice sent a pang through Sherlock's chest.

_No. I do not feel._ He wasn't supposed to feel, Mycroft had told him that. He had said once when they were much younger that Sherlock would be better off being an asexual, and Sherlock heartily agreed._ "Caring is not an advantage."_ He tried hard to convince. himself that it was just pains from his fall, but he knew better than that. He needed someone to talk to.

_Mycroft? No, he doesn't approve. _

_Molly? That would defeat the point. _

_Watson? No he thinks I'm... dead._

_Mrs. Hudson? She as well thinks me dead. _

_Lestrade? That would be awkward, given his position with my brother. _

_Katarina?_

Kat appeared to be Sherlock's only choice. He peeled through Mycroft's records. Katarina Morsten... Katarina Morsten, where are you? No Katarina Morsten showed up, but a Mary Morsten did. Must be a sister. I'll try her. Sherlock dialed the number listed into the ages-old morgue telephone. Kat's voice came over the other line. "This is Kat." Sherlock frowned. "Why is your number listed under Mary Morsten?" "Because that's my name..." Sherlock frowned harder. "That's preposterous. Your name is Katarina." Kat sighed. "Katarina is my second name. I go by it because Mary sounds so damn formal. Kat just sounds more... intriguing." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Whatever. What do you want, Holmes?" Sherlock opened his mouth, but something on Kat's end of the call stopped him. It was Mrs. Hudson. "Are you living in 221B," he hissed. "Yeah, why?" The gum smacking in her mouth drove Sherlock to the edge of fury. He slammed the morgue telephone down. He went over his list of friends again.

_Mycroft - doesn't approve. _

_Molly - defeats purpose. _

_Watson - thinks I'm dead. _

_Mrs. Hudson - also thinks I'm dead. _

_Lestrade - would be awkward because of his position with Mycroft… ahh. See, there it is. Mycroft isn't my concern. _

Sherlock smiled. He dialed up the older man on his phone. "This is Detective Inspector Lestrade speaking." Sherlock scowled. "Lestrade." Lestrade sighed. "Ah yes, Ms. Hooper did inform me you'd be making a re-appearance. What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Coffee. St. Bart's. 5 minutes." Sherlock set the phone down once again, not waiting for a reply.

"What on earth was so important that it had to interrupt my 8:00?" Lestrade sat across from Sherlock in the morgue break room. "I need your help." Lestrade raised his eyebrows in questioning. "Let's say," Sherlock was having trouble phrasing this in a realistic manner, "I had feelings," Lestrade looked genuinely shocked, "for a girl." Lestrade frowned. "Like... romantic feelings?" Sherlock hesitantly nodded. Lestrade immediately cut in. "Not my division." Sherlock frowned. "I thought you were married." He didn't phrase it like a question. "Divorced, actually. And girls disgust me. No offence to your girlfriend." Sherlock sighed. He obviously wasn't going to get any romantic advice, unless it was about seducing John Watson, and he definetly didn't need nor want that. But one good thing may have come out of this for Sherlock. He would be getting Mycroft off of his back. "Lestrade, I highly recommend you call this number."


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Sherlock series, or any of the characters.**

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Molly Hooper yawned as she climbed into her lumpy bed. She'd had a long day at the hospital, and she felt she very much deserved to go to bed that night without finishing her paperwork. It was 8:00, after all. She pulled the duvet over her body and closed her eyes with a mousy sigh. Just then, her phone vibrated.

"Oh, now what?" she muttered to herself, putting the phone to her ear. "Molly." The deep, velvety voice that gave her warm chills no longer sounded smooth, but broken. "Oh God, Sherlock. Are you alright?" She heard him breathe in shakily. He sounded like he'd been crying, and his voice was laced with soaking tears. "Molly I need you at the morgue. It's an emergency." Molly breathed in. "I'll be right there." She hung up her phone. Adrenaline pumping, she threw a jumper and a pair of pants over her lacy nightclothes. She grabbed her first aid kit and jumped in her car. She drove nonstop from her parent's house in Manchester straight to the morgue.

She pounded on the door. "Sherlock?" She pounded again, harder this time. She rummaged around in her bag, looking for the key, but Sherlock was already there. He was wearing that purple shirt she loved, and he looked _smoldering._ He smelled like John Watson. Before Molly could comprehend what was going on, his lips were on hers. The kiss was soft at first, and then Molly kissed back. He began to press his lips desperately hard into hers. He bit her lower lip softly, and Molly jumped.

Sherlock quickly pulled back, looking nervously into Molly's eyes. He put his hands behind his back. Molly let out a breath. "Sherlock… You didn't have to do this for me. I know you don't like me, and that's okay. I don't count." She figured Kat probably put him up to this. "No, Molly." He put his hand ever so softly on her cheek. "Of course you count. You've always counted." He hugged her close to him. "Don't you _ever_ think anything different." She buried her face into his shirt. Now that the adrenaline had died down, Molly realized how tired she was. She stifled a yawn, but Sherlock being the observant man he was, of course he noticed.

"Oh, you must be tired." The tall, slender man sat down on the floor, and Molly curled up next to him and began to drift off to sleep. Sherlock pressed his lips softly into her forehead. "I love you, Molly Hooper." Sherlock whispered the words as he heard her drift off to sleep.

*#*#*

Molly awoke with a gasp. She'd been unaware that she had fallen asleep on the job. She lifted her head from the empty morgue table at Royal Hospital and looked around. _This isn't St. Bart's… _Then she remembered. She'd quit her job at St. Bart's and moved to Royal to get away from Sherlock. She vibrated at the thought of his name. She began to scold herself when she realized it was her cell, vibrating in her pocket. _Speak of the Devil. _It was St. Bart's.

"This is Molly." She heard an urgent voice on the other end of the line. "Molly, it's Lestrade. Get over here now." Molly hopped in her car and drove home.

*#*#*

"What happened?" Molly ran alongside Lestrade, who was leading her into a private room. "I don't know. I was having coffee with Sherlock, actually I was on the phone with his brother, and then Sherlock just collapsed." Just then, they came across the room. A nurse stood by his bed, looking at MRI scans of his brain. Sherlock lay on the bed, tossing and turning in his unconscious sleep. "Fascinating," the nurse mumbled, "absolutely fascinating." Molly raised her eyebrows. "What is it?" The nurse looked up, as if just realizing that Molly was there. "His brain is so physically advanced, yet his limbic system is that of a newborn baby's. I can't see how that's possible. It's like… he hadn't _used _it until the moment of his collapse." Molly laughed out loud. It was so fitting. Lestrade frowned. "Limbic system?" Molly sighed. "It's the part of your brain that processes emotions." Lestrade snorted. "Sounds about right." Molly rolled her eyes. "I'm going to get some chips, want anything?" Lestrade shook his head politely, and Molly walked to the break room.

It was nice to be back in St. Bart's. Molly was just getting used to Royal, but this place would always be her home. She came across the break room, and nearly dropped her bag in shock. Sitting on the table, facing the door was John Watson. And he was holding a bloody knife.

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**Okay, more is coming soon, I swear on the precious I have this planned out, so you have to just trust me *evil grin***

**But seriously, they'll be fine :D. Please review! I really appreciate the feedback and constructive criticism.**

**See you lovelies at the next update!**

**-Laura (Laura013)**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hello again lovelies! This chapter was inspired by an episode of Castle called "Nanny McDead", particularly the scene in the laundry room with the knife. So, if you've seen Castle, you probably know where this chapter. I *think* it's a sad one, but that's up to you, so please tell me what you think! All reviewers get virtual smiley faces :)**

**Well, enjoy!**

**-Laura (Laura013)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Sherlock series (or the Castle series, unforutnately), or any of the characters. **

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John Watson was pressing the knife into his thigh. He had a vacant look in his eye, as thoughhe was looking right through Molly. He stared out into the hallway, muttering words.

"John, are you alright?" Molly stepped towards the older man. "N-no! G-get a-away!" He pointed the knife at her. "John, it's me. It's Molly Hooper." She spoke quietly and comfortingly. But he wasn't looking at Molly. He was still staring at the hallway. "N-no! G-get away Sh-Sher-Sherlock!" His voice reduced to a whisper. "The knives… they made you go away." He dug the kitchen knife further into his thigh, drawing more blood. Molly decided she didn't have enough time to coax it.

"Nurse! There's a patient in the break room. He's having a psycosomatic breakdown! He needs medical care!" Nurses rushed in with a stretcher. One wrenched the knife out of John's hand. Molly ran alongside the bed. "John! John can you hear me? It's me! It's Molly!" John smiled vaguely. "Molly…" His voice trailed off when a certain tall man stumbled out of the room next door. "No, get away!" He feebly tried to swat at the weak-minded Sherlock, who had only regained consiousness moments before. They pulled John into the room, shutting the door to all visitors.

*#*#*

"I think you ought to talk to him. Tell him." Sherlock shook his head at the preposterous idea. He may have just undergone a rupture in mind activity, but he wasn't stupid. "No." Lestrade looked at him funny. "Why can't you just tell your best friend?" Sherlock shook his head painfully. The machine attached to him started bedping violently, and Sherlock yanked out the IV in frustration. Lestrade frowned. "I'll leave you too it, then." Sherlock sighed as the detective inspector left the room. Sherlock didn't need a detective inspector to tell him what he needed to do.

*#*#*

"John?" Sherlock poked his head into the room. John nearly jumped off the bed. He picked up the nearest thing to him, which happend to be a syringe, and he pointed it at the broken detective. Sherlock sighed. "It's… okay. I'm… just a figment… of your imagination. Go back to sleep. I'm not real." John sighed his relief. His eyes closed softly and he fell into a peaceful sleep.

*#*#*

"What's going to happen to him?" The nurse sighed. John typed on his laptop, which the hospital had allowed Mrs. Hudson to bring to him. "Well. He appears to be functioning normally. We'll reccomend him a psycologist, but besides that, I think he's free to go." He'd been under intensive care for a month, and had been showing no signs of depression or suicidal thoughts. It was like he had just been possessed. Of course, they would keep eyes on him, but there was no need for him to be there. But John Watson still thought Sherlock Holmes was dead, and thst left Sherlock feeling just as bad as before.


End file.
